Thorny
by Cadence
Summary: Noah courts Angela the only way he knows how -- manipulation, deception, and bad puns about guns.


Title: Thorny

Pairing/Characters: Angela/Noah

Wordcount: 1232

Rating: PG

Spoilers: through V4

Warnings: none

Summary/Description: Noah courts Angela the only way he knows how -- manipulation, deception, and

Angela must be losing her touch. There is a great deal on her plate these days taking up her attention, but that is hardly an excuse. There is the reformation and reconstitution of the Company, grander and less sinister than before. There is Peter, her attempt to build the relationship they always ought to have had diverted and muddled by the her other duties, forcing her into the sad, old pattern from his childhood where she alternately doted on and ignored him. The frustration of it leaves her feeling guilty and torn – but not enough to change. And there is _Nathan_. That dreaded monster she has remade as her son and the constant effort it takes to keep his true nature at bay.

So perhaps it is actually justified that it takes her so long, three whole visions, for her to notice. Two end as screaming nightmares, waking her to the empty silence of her mansion and one becomes a sardonic dream that prods and taunts and leaves her with the small smile of a chase begun, finally leading her to the obvious conclusion: Noah is _purposefully_ placing himself in danger.

That is utterly inappropriate, and she tells him as much over one of their now habitual lunches.

"We need you for the Company, Noah," she says bluntly.

"It's good to be needed."

She swirls champagne in her glass, sipping before raising her hand to snap for an attendant. Her gaze does not leave Noah, her lips pursed as she examines him. He's not taking any of this seriously.

"You have seen how easily corrupt the power structure can become. We need your expertise as a guiding force, preventing that from happening."

Noah chuckles, leaning back in his chair. He has touched little of his fillet mignon; he claims to be more a barbecue man.

"You have Peter for that. No, I think the Company would get by just fine without the old guard. We're relics."

"Well," Angela huffs, trying not to take offense. "Be that as it may, you hardly need another gunshot wound."

***

Her admonition apparently does little to stop him. Another week and another vision. Another luncheon where he eschews her finery and her concern both.

But she is not so easily rattled as Noah thinks and the fourth time, rather than wag her finger and sigh over him, she quietly makes a phone call: "Would you please cancel all payments from this account? Yes, I'm afraid Noah's credit card was stolen quite some time ago. It's a real mess. I can't even begin to fathom the number of strange charges you must have been getting from all over the place.

"Yes, I have the authority to cancel it. I'm his wife."

She feels momentarily guilty over sending Noah down the rabbit hole of once more being suspicious of Sandra Bennet, but only momentarily. She has no ill regard for the woman, who has seemed to be quite a suitable mother to Claire and an incredibly forbearing wife. But, well, one mustn't dwell on collateral damage if one is going to command.

And whatever guilt she may feel, it is well worth the vicious satisfaction she feels, monitoring Noah's frantic intra-office calls as he tries to figure out just where his petty cash fund went and why he's going to have to _walk_ to his next mission.

Noah comes to her, anger seething out from under his collected exterior.

"This is low, Angela. Even for a Petrelli."

She arches an eyebrow, swallows down an oyster and gestures for him to sit.

"Don't act like you don't know," he growls quietly, taking his place across from her with bad grace.

"What is low, Noah," she chides, "is wracking me with visions to get my attention. You have it. Now, what are you going to use it for?"

"I could use a new gun," he quips, and her hand itches to slap him. But, no. Despite how he irritates her, he is not one of her boys. That hardly seems like the right reaction, but Angela is at a loss for exactly how to deal with him. Against her will, she is put off balance again and again by this man, in a way she has not felt in some time.

"You'll have to file a requisition."

He grunts and nods, cutting into his fine steak. Angela can't pin point why it is she does not feel that she has won.

***

The next week, the game evolves. Or perhaps Noah is forgoing it altogether. Instead of haunting visions waking her in the night, she is gifted instead with roses. Long stemmed and unshorn of their thorns, collected on the desk of the office she sometimes takes at the Company. She is not there to see them – it Peter who calls it in, smirk audible over the phone.

"You've got an admirer," he says, voice light, and Angela swears to herself that she will see Noah dead by evening.

Setting down her cell, Angela taps a manicured finger against it, wondering what to do. She could have the staff dispose of the flowers. She could also call Peter back and have him do it, but that would then result in fending off his sincere concern and support of a love life.

Or... she could go in personally.

A floorboard creaks in the mansion, driving out all thoughts of courtship – is that what this is? – as Angela comes to full alertness. She narrows her eyes at the door to her study, one hand going to retrieve her gun from the desk drawer.. Her aim does not waver, even as a red rose tip peeks through the slightly ajar crack of the double doors.

"I came to apologize," Noah calls.

Grudgingly, Angela clicks the safety back on, but she keeps the gun extended just to make a point.

"How cliché."

"I am nothing but a product of my time," Noah replies, entering the room. "But I thought the thorns were a good touch."

"They are appropriate," Angela admits, finally laying her gun down.

"Especially for a woman of your caliber. Sorry! Sorry," Noah exclaims, seeing her hand move again to the weapon at the pun. "Well, do you accept?"

"Noah," Angela sighs. "You still haven't explained what this is about."

"I thought that would be obvious. I know how your dreams work, Angela. Enough to take advantage of them. You dream about the fate of the world – and the fate of your family."

"Because they are often intertwined," Angela says.

Noah reaches up to adjust his glasses, light glinting off them. "That seems more true for some of your family than others. But my point remains. You dream about those you love.

"And," he adds, "you dream about me. The conclusion is inescapable."

His words are like a punch to the stomach, but Angela keeps her composure. She doesn't let him see how he has winded her.

She affects a pose, leaning back in her wing-backed chair, steepling her fingers.

"I dreamed about Arthur," she eventually says, voice steady. "I killed him."

Noah smiles slightly.

"That's a risk I'm willing to take."

"Why?" she grinds out, only surprised that she's managed to restrain her emotion this long.

"I think," he says, drawing close enough to stoop down, brushing a kiss across her lips, "we understand each other."


End file.
